


Eclipsis Solis

by Gayneral



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Gen, Lucio (The Arcana) Being A Dick, Lucios Backstory, Pre-Canon, Red Plague (The Arcana), Sun Themes, Vesuvia (The Arcana), all characters besides Lucio and his dogs just mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:27:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23028538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gayneral/pseuds/Gayneral
Summary: “The day he’d been born, Lucio had left his mother’s womb coated in blood and screaming, his tiny, meaty hands grabbing for Morga’s worn out skin.[...]The clan’s doctor had called him a parasite, only to survive the harsh winter because he’d sucked on Morga until he was fat, but a weakling in nature.[…]In Lucio’s own mind he was born a king“In the eyes of the Fool you’re a walking tragedyDestiny has your mother's face,her smile carcasses in the snow, blooming red;“You sold your eyes when you’ve left my womb”
Relationships: Lucio/Nadia (The Arcana)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	Eclipsis Solis

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't posted here in over a year, but I've not completely stopped writing. And now I can share the one work I did in the last year: My piece for the din zine. I was part of the 'Day' section and chose to write about Lucio  
> A sort of character study because that's what I do 'best'  
> The Zine is amazing, filled with both great artists and awesome writers, I am lucky to be a part of it (it's my first zine ever,,)

  
_**“What makes a legacy?”**  
Everyone’s dead; you’re the only one standing; sacrifice burns  
**“Power, unfathomable Power”**  
Your soul is nothing but ashes  
**“To never die”**  
-The sun will never set on this Kingdom of mine_  


The day he’d been born, Lucio had left his mother's womb coated in blood and screaming, his tiny, meaty hands grabbing for Morga’s worn out skin.  
As if he’d demanded to be stuffed right back in, where it was warm and he was left without a care in the world, sustained by his mother's body.  
The clan’s doctor had called him a **parasite** , only to survive the harsh winter because he’d sucked on Morga until he was fat, but a weakling in nature.  
Lucio had made it past the first, the most dangerous month, easily, always hanging on his mother’s chest.  
No one had been able to pull him off her, like a leech stuck to a body; he kept his teeth around her skin until blood mixed with milk.  
Some clan members had called him an abomination in hushed whispers; his father however had laughed and foreseen a warrior’s future.

In Lucio’s own mind he was born a king, destined for greater things, beyond even the reaches of their infamous clan.  
It had almost been too easy to sell the hearts, and in tie with that the lives, of his parents to a monster in the icy forest of their hunting grounds.  
His feet had burned, blue in the snow, but he had stood tall, biting his bottom lip as he’d taken the demons deal as if it were the coronation that he’d expected for his birthday.  
With a glorious future in his mind, the disease laid upon him by slimy hands had felt like a blessing rather than a curse.  
There was no plague, no sacrifice too great if it meant receiving what Lucio viewed as his birthright.  
He was certain that it was his place to rule their clan and he would take that right for himself, no matter the cost.  
His mother had made a grave mistake in denying him his power and she would pay for her foolishness soon.

At 18 years old, hands still soft and clean of blood and calluses, he had imagined a swift, easy success at giving the hard part of the task to someone else.

His father died quickly, withered away like a flower, and he meet his end on his back, motionless; thick, red blood trickling from his wounds, tinting the tiles.  
It made Lucio think of a beetle, caught in a room for days, no open windows leading to freedom.  
Lucio had vowed that very moment that he’d never let himself end like this.  
He despised her but he wanted to be like his mother, unmoved even by the sickness he’d riddled her with.  
More ruler than she was person.

His mother’s survival had been, unfortunately, one of Lucio’s biggest failures, the only great loss he’d suffered in his own eyes besides the one of his left arm during one of his jobs as a mercenary.

Lucio had first seen battle from behind the broad back of his mother, lines of men between him and the enemy.  
It had been a rival clan, new to the area, not yet scared into respect, foolish in their plan to take the territory his family called their own.  
He'd been untouchable then, listening to his mother's rough tone as she'd explained battle tactics.  
Young Lucio had barely paid attention, far more interested in the clashing of swords and shields.  
His eyes had been fixed on a warrior, not particularly muscled in shape but making it up with wits, pulling his sword out of the torso of an enemy.  
The body seemed to hang in the air for a second, caught in the moment, before he toppled to the ground.  
Lucio could barely see him fall between the shuffling of feet.  
He disappeared, like he'd become soil to the ground.  
Lucio caught the smell of blood in the air and on his tongue it tasted like **power**.

The Count of Vesuvia might’ve had such power once, but time had stolen it from him and as wrinkles collected on his face, eyes were cast to the palace.  
Word had spread throughout the lands and everywhere those with the insatiable need for might or those ruled by great foolishness had made their way to the city.  
Lucio had watched for true competition but the disgraced kings and young farmers alike were full of dreams too big, stumbling like _idiots_.  
One of them had, so Lucio had been told by one of the men following him, attempted to poison the Count but had instead blown off his own face for a full court to see.

All this trickery was _pointless_ , Lucio had thought, standing in the shade cast by one of the sandy stone buildings, drops of sweat running down his sunburnt cheeks.  
Vesuvia was awfully sunny for a man like him; it had taken one day for him to contract a terrible redness in his face.  
The local healer had sold him a paste that had only caused him to itch all over.  
Once he’d taken over as the count, that man had to be cast out into the desert.  
He could see for himself where his awful pastes would get him then.

Lucio was not a man for waiting but if his mother’s endless rambling on war tactics had taught him anything it was that the last standing would cast judgment on all else.  
And in the end, it _had_ been entertaining to watch those, which had come for the throne, leave, heads hung in shame, or if they were less lucky, hanging with a rope wound tightly around their necks.

Paintings and hushed whispers told the story of how Vesuvia was taken, even years in the passing, Lucio the center of them all.  
They were all brutal tales, naturally Lucio liked those best that portrayed him a shining savior to free the citizens of the ghastly rule forced upon them by the late Count.  
None of them could, however visualize just how the burning sun had reflected on his golden gauntlet, silver shining from his sword, raised, to be cast down on even the strongest man called to duty to defend the old Count from certain death.  
Death had hung over the city, like smoke tangling with the warm air of the Vesuvian summer.  
He let himself be painted in red, like fire and the sunburn still lingering on his face and the blood of the Count that dripped from his hands when the man fell, in front of Lucios feet.

Vesuvias earth was saturated with the blood of warriors and kings that day, it seeped into the cracks on the ground and made soil for the greatest rule in its history.

Lucio had always achieved the impossible.  
When he had been reduced to mercenary work he had made himself a name as an excellent warmonger, when he had lost an arm in the fight he’d found someone to clean his wounds, he’d gotten replacement for the loss in the works of magicians, and at last he had reached his greatest victory yet.  
**Vesuvia**.  
The City had been a mess when Lucio had declared himself Count, shut off by a ruler that had been old and paranoid, stuck to the traditions of field work and fishing.  
Lucio however had aimed for greater things.  
First had been the removal of all supporters of the dead Count, followed by the appointment of Courtiers, a group of people to take care of all things Lucio considered too bothersome.  
In the passing of time he had the Count’s mansion turned to dust, a grand palace taking its place, seen from far streets even before entering the city.  
Trade had picked back up until Vesuvia had become known for its exquisite wares and of course the Count’s famous, extravagant masquerades that attracted visitors from all over the Kingdoms.

Looking over the city now, cast in the golden glow of the sun in its zenith, Lucio saw the glory he had always envisioned.

Underneath his feet, black and white marble stretched all the way across the balcony, polished enough to reflect the light like sunshine on water.  
His own mirrored image shot him a winning smile.  
If there was one thing that brought Lucio more joy than the thrill of a battle won it was the comfort of all things glorious, shiny and expensive.  
Had Nadia not been so strictly against it, he would have plastered their entire bedroom walls with gold framed mirrors.

People would argue that he and his wife, the Countess, had nothing in common, but Lucio disagreed.  
For one it was quite obvious to anyone who was blessed with sight that they shared a breathtaking beauty, the elegance of someone meant to rule as well as an excellent taste.  
And beyond that there was the same root of ambition in both of them, the knowledge that no goal was too far out of reach.

Nadia had come to Vesuvia from her home in Prakra, leaving her family behind, and as they exchanged greetings on one of Lucio famed parties, he'd known at once that she was meant to be his wife.  
In her eyes there had been a gleam and Lucio had bathed himself in the certainty that the ambition that radiated off her was directed towards piquing his interest.  
Bubbly champagne had dripped from his lips that night when he had pulled one of the countless ruby rings off his fingers to propose to the young princess.  
She had accepted just as quickly, the taste of expensive wine lingering in her mouth when they had kissed.

The wedding had been shortly after, and Lucio had not bothered to ask why none of Nadia’s family had been present to see their daughter tie the knot with the Count of Vesuvia.

Now, Noddy was not nearly as grand has he was and Lucio had his Courtiers make sure that her ambitions never grew greater than the love for her husband.  
Too many tragedies started with a lover’s betrayal.  
And it would just be _such a shame_ if Nadia had to die at his hands simply because of delusions of grandeur.

Recently she had taken quite the interest in the sickness raving the city.  
No matter how often Lucio had waved her off, promising it was nothing to worry her pretty head about, she was persistent to search for the cause of it.  
Lucio himself couldn’t have cared less when it all began, after all what were a couple of fishermen or servants to a Count?  
Nothing.  
Really, he had thought himself safe and sound up in the Palace, and certainly he was still untouchable and unshakable like the marble statues that framed the long path through the palace gardens, all fashioned after the counts image.

If only, the dead piling up had become bothersome.

Two sleek bodies passed by his legs, their claws a soft sound on the floor as his dogs, Melchior and Mercedes, joined him on the balcony.  
Their white fur moved slightly in the summer breeze carried over from the sea.  
Still looking over the city, Lucio halfheartedly began petting Melchior’s head, as the dogs settled down on each side of him.  
They were panting in the heat, air thick and heavy around them if it wasn’t for the wind that picked up every once in a while, making the weather bearable.  
Just like Lucio himself the dogs originated from lands with a vastly different climate, their rich fur made to withstand biting cold.

At least it protected them from sunburns, Lucio thought bitterly, glaring up into the sun, instantly regretting his action as his vision filled with white dots and he had to blink a couple of times to regain his sight.

When he did, his eyes fell on the island across the bright blue sea.  
Where the city was glittering in the sunlight, the building perched atop of the landmass seemed to swallow up all light that hit the sturdy brick walls.  
The Lazaret was like a scorch on otherwise perfect parchment, a nasty spill on a silk garment, a stain on the city.  
Lucio looked upon it with great disgust.  
Surely it _had_ been a good idea to ban all the sick from the city and instead have them shipped to the island, far away from everyone that was healthy.  
Far away from the Count himself.  
But it was annoying nevertheless, that such an action had even been necessary in the first place, and that he had to be bothered with it.

After the first bodies had all shown the same signs of illness, doctors had begun calling it a **plague**.  
Lucio despised that word, simply because it made his city sound unclean and it had scared off merchants travelling through.  
Not to speak of how his parties had suffered from the lack of guests.  
No one wanted to come to a city in which they were at risk of dying of a ghastly plague.  
So Lucio had forbidden the use of that word to describe the odd cases of death, instead having it called a series of misfortunes.  
That however had only helped momentarily, surely without the word of a pest spreading, business had picked up again but the success had only persisted for so long.

Until the bodies had started piling up.

The Doctors had been requesting an audience for a while and after a few months there was no more pushing the responsibility to his Courtiers.  
When they had been granted their wish, the physicians had described the dire situation to their count and were begging him to take action.  
He had disregarded it at first, but that had only lasted until he had taken a stroll through the city.

He’d been told of the trouble with the disposal of the bodies but there he had seen it with his own eyes for the first time.  
A group of people had gone from door to door to pick up the bodies, each new corpse carried out of the houses wrapped in linen sheets and thrown on top of the others that were already piled up on a carriage.  
Limbs were spilling out of the fabric hastily used to cover the corpses, skin coated in red ulcers and other dark marks.  
But what had been worst was the smell.  
In the burning heat of Vesuvias unforgiving midday sun it had been sickly sweet in the air, indescribable but _foul_ and it had Lucio vomit around the next corner, safely hidden away in the shade.

Lucio wanted this pest as far away from his city as possible.  
The Lazaret had been an abandoned hospital from the times of the old Count, left to wither away when the man had closed up the city for good.  
In just a couple of days it had been running again and Lucio had proclaimed to the city that all sick and dying were to be taken to the Lazaret for care.  
It had lifted a great annoyance off his shoulders to watch those miserable figures board boats on the docks and to never have to see their haunting red eyes and ulcerous skin ever again.  
Once they left for the Lazaret, they never returned and the ugly stain was as good as lifted from the city.

Only the dark shape of the Lazaret in the distance reminded him of it.

But such was easy to forget when he focused on the bustling streets, people rushing about in excitement as the next grand party of their beloved Count neared.  
Lucio loved having the city join in such, the way they shouted for him, awe on their faces upon seeing the Palace from the inside every time anew.  
When they would all be waiting for his arrival in the ballroom, all eyes turned to him as he’d descend the flight of stairs, _ah-s_ and _oh-s_ falling off their lips.  
Wondrous smiles and roaring applause a greater enjoyment than even the liters of alcohol that would rush through his body over the evening.

He would see his own glory reflect in their eyes as they’d circle around him like planets around the sun.  
Lucio loved that imagery, him the sun, the city in his orbit.  
He certainly matched the sun in intensity and just as people depended on the sun, the citizens of Vesuvia needed him.  
What were they without their Count to ease their minds, without their beloved ruler to celebrate, after all?  
Lucio knew that the city would rot away without him to look over it, a shining beacon of hope even in the direst time.  
After all it had been _him_ that had saved the people from the certain death presented to them by the plague; _surely_ they would celebrate him tenfold at the next party.

Lucio dared to cast another gaze at the sun, shielding his eyes from the bright rays this time.

He imagined this was the way all the townsfolk that were busying themselves beneath him saw their Count.  
High above them, too glorious to be looked upon directly, always to be watched with eyes cast just a little lower, a presence so overwhelming that it burned them and lifted them up at the same time.  
Forever unreachable unless they wished to end up with burned wings.

A smile, wide enough to flash brilliant white teeth, spread over Lucio’s face.  
Truly, what was a plague to someone like him?  
What harm could such a puny little sickness do to the **Sun**?

Noddy could bug him all she wanted, _investigate the source_ this, and _call for experts_ that, this thing would be over with before it even began.  
And in time Noddy would understand what Lucio considered certainty: that no harm would come to them anyways.  
They were as safe as a baby in its mother’s womb.  
Soon the whole ordeal would be forgotten and Vesuvia would be enlightened by their rule for the rest of eternity.  
That much was taken care off.  
Of course he could hardly explain to Noddy how exactly he knew that he would never cease his reign over the city and she raised a brow whenever he called himself an immortal ruler but it was a fact.  
And it had hardly cost _anything_ at all.

Lucio inhaled deeply, no trace of death left in his mouth, the air fresh, filled with spices and the ocean breeze.  
The sun warmed his skin, like soft hands caressing over his body.  
Sunlight cast on his entire body as if he was his own monument, dipped in gold, a beautiful statue, grand and **timeless**.

What would his mother say if she saw him now?  
“What do you think of your son now?” he exclaimed, triumphantly, both arms stretched out dramatically, as if in a performance.  
“Soon you will be a corpse rotting away in the snow while **I** will only rise and rise, never failing, never dying, the grandest ruler the world will ever see.  
Not even death could keep me, mother. “  
“ **I am untouchable** ”; he yelled over the roofs of Vesuvia, golden gauntlet shine in the blinding reys only matched by Lucios very own glory, that burned with the intensity of a thousand suns.

“Ouch”, the Count was pulled from his speech by a prickling at the back of his neck.  
With disgust written all over his face he plugged something from his skin, holding it between his fingers to inspect it.  
It skittered and writhed until it slipped from his grasp, crawling from his fingers downwards over the pale skin.  
Lucio squinted at the sight of something he’d last seen years and years ago, stumbling over himself in the woods of his homelands.  
It certainly wasn’t that exact one; he remembered having squished it so vividly as if it just had happened.  
No, this must be an odd coincidence, perhaps carried in by a merchant from the south; Lucio thought as he watched the way the insect’s carapaces shimmered red in the sunlight that hit it.

In his palm Lucio held a _red beetle_.

The insect moved around a few more seconds before Lucio picked it back up and squished it just as he had done years ago.  
Like a Déjà-vu red dust settled all over his hand as the beetle popped like a bubble with a high pitched cracking.  
No matter how much Lucio tried to shake off the red spots, the dust stuck to him like ink that has sunken underneath his skin.  
With a scowl he turned on his heels to march back inside, making his way to the bathroom to find some strong soap to rub off those disgusting insect intestines, his dogs always following as if kept by an invisible leash.

Upon passing a mirror it was to him as if his reflection had stared back at him with blood red eyes but with another blink, the illusion was gone.

  
This is how your story will end:  
Pride is but a blind man; gold and glory are sickly sweet acid  
In the eyes of the Fool you’re a walking tragedy  
Destiny has your mother's face,her smile carcasses in the snow, blooming red;  
“You sold your eyes when you’ve left my womb”  
\- _Dusk is near_  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading  
> I hope you enjoyed this  
> Kudos and Comments are appreciated but obviously not mendatory  
> I'm ever so thankful if you do either or both tho <3
> 
> I usually mention  WrongDecision as my beta-reader at the end of my works, but this time I also have to mention them as the amazing force behind making this zine happen  
> They did great work and I am incredibly proud of them for doing so well on their first time leading a Zine, they are a great writer (and artist) themselves, so check 'em out!


End file.
